


The Complications of Buoyancy

by cecilkirk



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst, Frerard, High School AU, M/M, Past Abuse, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-05-28 20:09:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6343477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cecilkirk/pseuds/cecilkirk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard feels like his life is falling apart. When he meets Frank, Gerard realizes he has the ability to pull it all together--or destroy it completely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

“Dude. Snap out of it.”

Gerard ducked his head, breaking his line of vision. “What?”

“Don’t stare at the new kid,” Gabe said, scratching his fork into the tray aimlessly. “It’s weird. Don’t be that guy.”

Gerard’s eyes floated back across the cafeteria, over Gabe’s shoulder for only a moment before Gabe met his eyes again. Gerard looked down at his food.

“Where do you think he’s from?”

Gerard cocked his head. “What makes you think I know?”

Gabe shrugged. “Thought you could read his thoughts by now, the way you’re staring at him.”

Gerard squinted his eyes. “Stop that,” he said. Gabe’s lips curled into a smirk.

“Describe him to me,” Gabe said. “Does the light hit his eyes just right? Does his voice make you weak in the knees? Do his hands--?”

“Stop,” Gerard says. He’s unable to fight back a smile. Gabe notices this and shoots back a knowing grin. “In all honesty, he’s sitting alone, picking at his food. He’s wearing ratty jeans, an old tee shirt, some scuffed-up Converse, and his hair looks like it just saw a pillow five minutes ago. Nothing exciting.”

“Then why can’t you look away?”

Gerard rolled his eyes, plucking his focus from the new kid. “Seriously. Enough.”

Gabe held up his hands in mock defense, fork knotted between the knuckles of his right hand, palms facing Gerard. Gerard shot him a dirty look. Gabe grinned back, wide and bright, closing his eyes in smugness.

As Gabe stood to dump his tray, Gerard looked at the kid with a finally unobstructed view. His leg was shaking under the table, and he didn’t look like he’d eaten anything. Gerard sure hadn’t seen him eating anything, and he’d--Gerard blushed--he’d been watching the kid pretty intently. He’d have caught him eating.

Looking at his own undisturbed food, Gerard wonders if he’s nervous about being the new kid. He wonders if he had to abandon all his friends, had to start fresh. Cliched, sure, but it still hurt, he imagined. He didn’t know what it was like to have the opportunity to start everything over, or at least to have it handed to him. He knew he could always create that opportunity, though. A different kind of blush crawls across his cheeks, and he looks down, feeling nauseated. He had a world of possibility in front of him, even if he had to craft his own doors--even if they were only one-way.

Gabe returns and begins talking about something Gerard can’t hear, doesn’t remember. It’s not important enough to stick in Gerard’s thoughts and interrupt the ones flooding back, back from where he thought he had shoved them well enough to stay.

Not forever, apparently.

Gerard manages to catch eyes with the kid for all of a half second, and he feels the connection deep in his stomach. Nothing was really forever, and if anyone knew that, Gerard figures, it was the two of them.

 

 

 

Nothing could bring Gerard out of his mental fog for the rest of the school day. It makes Gerard feel like he’s living just beside his life, and it strips all feeling of control from him. He has to let life drag him under, and he hates it. But not enough to do anything about. He doesn’t hate the lack of control as much as he hates himself. Gerard smirks bitterly at himself as this realization hits him. This fog was as close as he could come to not feeling anything anymore, and if it wouldn’t lead to immediate aching and overwhelming sadness afterward, he would anticipate it more.

It was always the aftermath that made him regret everything.

And it was the aftermath of the school day reminded him of this interminably.

He hated soccer. He hated sports in general, really, but he absolutely despised soccer. It didn’t even matter anymore that Gabe was better than him--everyone was now, and at this point, Gerard had become so apathetic to the goingson in his life that he just wanted to pass through it unseen, unremembered, unrecognized. Let him be mediocre--let him fade into nothing.

Typically, even the exertion of practice wasn’t enough to bring him out of the fog. Or, rather, it did, but then soaked him in another ocean, plunging him in a fresh, new fog, one that accommodated aching lungs and bruising shins and the kind of active self-loathing that came from constant berating from teammates. Normally, nothing was important enough to bring Gerard out of his thoughts.

But a pair of warm, deep green eyes across the field broke the norm.

Quite literally, Gerard froze--he forgot what he was doing, where his feet were, where his train of thoughts was supposed to be heading. Someone collided with him, prying his feet from the field and pulling him out of his fog with astounding efficacy. Gerard blinked at the grass, at the others running across the field, at the new kid’s eyes suddenly much closer.

The kid turns his head, hustling toward the others. He’s thin, but not very fit, Gerard notes--not a very fast runner, and his reaction time is delayed, like his world is happening four seconds after everyone else’s. He looks lost when the leg he swings out catches air, turning to see the ball is now on the other side of the field. It’s eerie; it’s unsettling. Gerard wonders briefly if the kid has some kind of vision problems, or maybe had suffered some kind of head injury recently. That’d be a reason to move, Gerard thinks. Getting in a really bad accident. Or having the shit beat out of you, maybe.

He’s no less unsettled.

As he joins the game again, he becomes unsettled with himself--at least Gerard is no longer the worst kid on the team. It’s clear that the new kid is really, really horrible at soccer. Reflex issues aside, he barely knows the rules of the game, struggles to remember who’s on his team, even with the red pennies over half the guys’ shirts. Gerard notices he’s not so much confused as sad, like he had known all of this and forgotten it, somehow. Something causes Gerard’s breath to hitch at this thought. Maybe something really, really horrible had happened to the kid.

If you were struck hard enough, you could lose memory, right?

A new kind of fog begins to settle on Gerard’s shoulders. The more he looks into the kid’s eyes, watches him race across the field, catches confusion stitch across his face, he tries to piece together his history, or one that could suit him, at the very least. All for a kid he’d known for a handful of hours, all for a kid whose name he didn’t even know.

As he trudged up to the locker room, he knew the possibility to ask was there. As he walked to his car, he knew he could get more defined pieces from the kid to use. As he pulled into his driveway, he knew there was always the opportunity to find out more about the kid--it was just up to him to do it.

He could. And he would, maybe, if he didn’t care so little about himself. Who was he to deserve sated curiosity?

Who was he to drag someone new into his life?

Who was he to attempt creating his own happiness?

 

 

 

It was all a game of inches and seconds at the Way house.

Gerard learned quickly that to stay in the shadows was the best option. Everything at home was leaning over the cliff edge and balancing on precipices, promising catastrophe every waking second. It filled Gerard with dread underlined with a buzzing anxiety. It made him want to rip his skin off. It made him want to run away.

He found the staircase as soon as he left the front door, descending to the basement--the only space he could call his own. Luckily there was a bathroom down there, meaning Gerard could isolate himself almost completely after practice. He showered quickly, dressed quickly, did homework quickly. None of the events were important enough to stick in the amalgamation of his thoughts. All he could think of was the new kid.

Gerard skips dinner entirely, stating nausea as his excuse. It’s not a complete prevarication; he really was nauseated, but it was perpetual now, the effect of living in this house. His parents fought constantly, fought him constantly, too, and Mikey--Mikey turned on him completely after he came out. He’d dropped any future pleasantries and their sacred history as easily as if their whole relationship had been a fiction. It was to him now, evidently. At the attempt to create his own happiness, Gerard was left drowning in the aftermath.

He didn’t know how much longer he could keep his chin above the waves.

He didn’t know if he wanted to anymore, or if he even deserved it.

The thought of it wasn’t new to Gerard. After the complete failure at manhandling the opportunity to bring himself out of the waters, he’d been shoved back under with the verbal equivalent of a swift kick to the jaw. He was something close to drowning, and it didn’t worry him anymore. There were loads of old, half-empty paint cans in the store room across from his bedroom--paint could kill if ingested, right? He’d pictured the scenario more than once: beige and grey paint soaking his insides until his vision faded to black. It was all wonderfully rose-colored to fantasize about, not to mention all too familiar, something akin to routine, something to complement the fog.

Gerard thought of the paint, of the blood that soaked his socks from running, of the heavy grey of the rainy skies, of the electric confusion in the new kid’s green eyes. Out of these, the last is the most vivid. Out of these, only the last promises some kind of change.

Frustrated tears burn and leak down Gerard’s cheeks. If this was his opportunity to be happy, he wasn’t going to let it slip through his fingers.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Gerard wondered why games were allowed to commence during rain.

He could see the possibility for it in other sports, but for soccer it was fucking brutal. Someone wiped out every six minutes and there were collisions after a slip even more often. Mud covered blood for the most part, but Gerard could see their goalie’s forearms were torn up, slathered in a dark red that rivaled the color of the ground. The grey skies weren’t indicating any kind of lightening up. This did nothing to alleviate Gerard’s worry.

And almost like the kind of irony and tragic circumstance he deserved, he was too far away when it happened; all he could do was watch. It happened in slow motion (maybe, he thinks, how the new kid was perceiving it, too), and it was mortifying:

The new kid went to steal the ball, perpendicular to the opponent who had it. The opponent had swung his leg far back to gain momentum so he could launch it across the field, but his cleat didn’t meet the ball--it met the new kid’s thigh. He had wiped out, flat on his back, knocking their opponent off balance for a moment, but that was all the time needed. Gerard felt his face pale as he watched their opponent stand, for only a moment, on the new kid, his full weight pressing down from cleat to skin.

The new kid didn’t move. Their opponent stopped, covered his mouth, and stared.

In a handful of moments, Gerard was at the new kid’s side.

“You all right?” he asked. “Are you--”

Gerard’s voice trailed off as nausea tightened around his guts, drawing the air from his lungs. He could hear the opponent apologizing profusely.

“I’m good,” the kid said, pulling down his shorts. There was no blood, Gerard realized. He’d had his skin punctured with fucking cleats and there was nothing but purple pinpricks on his thigh. He didn’t bleed at all.

What the fuck?

Gerard held out a trembling hand to the kid, who clamored to his feet but didn’t favor a side--he walked like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just had 200 pounds push metal spikes into his thigh. Gerard blinked at the new kid and felt his skin crawl with everything he didn’t understand.

Seriously, what the _fuck?_

“Thank you, uh…”

He found his voice. “Gerard.”

“Gerard,” the kid tried. “I’m Frank.”

Frank. It was just uncommon enough to suit him. Gerard smiled at himself, which made Frank’s eyebrows furrow.

He was headed back to the field when Gerard called out to him, blinking again at the inability to comprehend the situation.

“Aren’t you going to sit out?” he asked. “You just got, like, trampled. You can totally rest, man.”

Frank waved the comment away with the back of his hand, breaking into a slow jog toward where the ball was flitting across the grass and between feet. Gerard watched, unable to process his thoughts except for one:

Frank had really, really bright eyes.

With a terse shake of the head to wave away his own thoughts, Gerard joins back into the game with fresh energy and the freedom of being away from the fog.

 

 

 

Mid-afternoon was a shitty time of day, Gerard thought. Especially in the rain. It hadn't rained much during the game but it had beforehand, and it was now, dripping down the glass like errant tears. The sky was interminably grey to the point where hours could have fucking gone backward and no one would know. It left Gerard feeling groggy and with a misplaced exhaustion, something like nostalgia. He was eighteen years old; he didn’t have the right to be nostalgic.

On the bus ride home from the game, the air was heavy and stagnant, not to mention filled with silence. They had won the game, but the lack of companionship left each kid spaced out awkwardly on the bus, as if they literally repelled each other. It could all be faked to ensure victory, but it never lasted longer than those ninety-odd minutes.

Gerard had always thought it tragic.

He also knew it could always be changed.

Frank sat across the aisle, looking out the window. Gerard saw the opportunity and took it.

“You all right, Frank?”

Gerard reveled in the feeling of Frank’s name in his mouth. It felt old. It felt like it could be the source of nostalgia.

Gerard wondered if that was a sad prediction.

“What? Yeah, I’m good,” Frank said, turning his head from the glass to look at Gerard. His eyes were green and even a bit hazel, Gerard realized, still humming with an underlying vividity he couldn’t put a name to.

Gerard clears his throat, blinking and regaining his thoughts. “You can always get ice when we get back, you know, or meds, or--”

“No, it’s fine,” Frank said curtly. He pulls his phone from his pocket, looks at what Gerard assumed to be a text, and frowns. “Really, I’m fine, Gerard,” he adds.

Gerard refocused his gaze on the seatback in front of him, feeling bitterness and self-loathing find itself between his thoughts. He was stupid to think being friends with Frank would be worthwhile. Gerard cringes as he replays his words in his head. God, he was so fucking awkward. Miraculous if Frank ever acknowledged his existence again, if he ever--

“But thanks anyway,” Frank says.

Gerard looks over at Frank, but Frank’s back to staring out the window. Gerard worries his lower lip between his teeth for a moment. He would devote himself to God entirely if it meant being exposed to miracles.


	3. Chapter 3

**  
  
**“What’s on your mind, Way?”

Gerard blinked the fog back far enough to remember where he was. “What?”

Gabe sucked down the last of some shitty coffee drink filled with ice and whipped cream. It was an atrocity to God, and it made Gerard nauseated to look at. “Want to know what’s troubling ya, son.” Gabe adopted a lazy drawl and pretended to push up a cowboy hat from his forehead, looking down his nose at Gerard.

Without a moment of hesitation, Gerard joined in.

“It’s this soccer thing, I tell ya,” he says, mirroring Gabe’s posture and mimicking his newfound accent. “Sports just ain’t my thing. Never done been too good at ‘em.”

Gabe stifles a snort, hiding his grin behind his hand. “Now, now, Jee-rard,” he says, and Gerard has to bite his lip to keep himself from laughing. “Sports ain’t for everyone. Ya can’t be good at everything. But that art thing? My oh my, y’all can do a drawin’ better than God made the sunrise. Fuckin’ beautiful, it is. Ya got a gift, son.”

Swallowing down his black coffee and a stupid, wide smile, Gerard says, “Pretty sure cowboys didn’t swear.”

“Hey now, Jee-rard,” Gabe says, feigning anger a little louder than he probably should have. “Why, I’ll have you know, we here vaqueros get mad enough to let our manners slide. We have the right to be as pissed as we please. So fuck you up and down the canyon.”

Gerard snorts, sucks down coffee too fast, and it comes out his nose all over the table.

“Fuck you, Saporta,” he says bitterly, wiping his nose, but it’s through a laugh, one long suppressed and deeply, deeply needed.

“That’s Mister Saporta to you, son,” he says, letting the drawl drip past his lips past the point of being believable. He and Gerard meet eyes, and both burst into wide, stupid smiles.

“Really think I got a gift?” Gerard asks seriously.

Gabe places his hands in his lap, wary of setting them on the table and potentially in what would essentially be caffeinated snot. “Yeah, man. In all honesty, you’re super talented. You could do wonders with it.” Peering into the bottom of his own coffee and wishing for more, he adds, “You could even win over that Iero kid with it.”

A light blush begins to bloom across Gerard’s cheeks, the one that always did when Gabe brought up romantic interests because they were always boys. “Who?”

“The kid you were ogling at lunch the other day. The new kid.”

“Oh,” Gerard says evenly, muting his embarrassment. He wishes he had coffee to drink to give his hands something to do, something to keep him busy and serve as a minor distraction.

“‘Oh’? That all? I mean, if he’s not my type, I can let him be mine,” Gabe said. Even though he didn’t mean it seriously and Gerard knew very well he didn’t, his head shot up nonetheless. Gabe smirked; he knew Gerard was smitten.

“No, it’s not--I mean, I’m not going to try to ‘win him--who do you think--? Who--? What?”

Gabe snorted. He linked his fingers together, rested the back of his skull in them, and leaned back in the booth, exaggerating his height. “I can’t believe I’m witnessing love at first sight unfold right before my eyes.”

“Saporta, I swear to fucking Christ--”

“Please tell me when you have your first date. And first kiss. Oh, I should be keeping a journal--”

“Gabe,” Gerard muttered, clenching his jaw. “Not now, please.”

Gabe blinked and lowered his arms, hands back in his lap. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Gerard said. “Just, you know.”

“Touchy still?”

Gerard nodded. Something in his throat made him hesitate to respond verbally.

“Hey,” Gabe said. He put his hand on the table, palm open, inviting Gerard’s hand. He placed it on Gabe’s palm and Gabe wrapped his fingers around it, mile-long fingers warm, strong, and protective. “We’re both going to hell. It’ll be all right.”

Gerard smiled weakly, avoiding Gabe’s eyes. He tried to swallow down the lump in his throat, but to no avail.

“Really, Way. Once you’re out of high school, things’ll look up. It’s all temporary. You’ll find love in the prettiest boy you can think of. We’ll go on lots of gay-ass double dates and queer shit up.”

Gerard looked at Gabe and grinned, finding himself with tears in his eyes. Gabe cocked his head at this sight and rubbed Gerard’s knuckles with his thumb.

“Love ya, Way. Even if you’re shit at soccer.”

Gerard rolled his eyes and laughed. “I tolerate you and your western ways.”

Gabe patted Gerard’s hand before separating them. He pretended to smoke a cigarette and flick ashes onto the table. “Yee-haw, motherfucker.”

 

 

 

Without a car and with a hatred of rain, Gerard let Gabe drive him home. It was only a few blocks from the coffeeshop. It was much too close for Gerard’s liking.

As Gabe pulled up to the Way house, Gerard couldn’t make his fingers grasp the handle. He couldn’t do it, not yet. He couldn’t leave this happiness behind so soon.

He looks back at Gabe. Without a word, Gabe knows exactly what to say.

“It’ll be all right, Gerard. You know you can always talk to me.”

Gerard stares at the porch lights, flickering warm light on the walls like avaricious tongues. “Yeah,” he mutters absentmindedly.

“No, really, Gerard.” Gabe touches Gerard’s shoulder to draw his attention away from the house. “You--you’re kind of worrying me. I want you to be happy, man, and I don’t think you are. And I know things have been shit at home ever since you told them, but, just--I don’t know, man, fuck--just remember that it was the right thing to do. Keep making yourself happy. Fight for it.”

Gerard says nothing. He can’t find any words worthy to compare to Gabe’s.

“It seems like you did the wrong thing now, but trust me, it’ll all work out in the end.” Gabe rubs Gerard’s upper arm, worrying his lip between his teeth. “You’ll be all right, man. Hang in there. Talk to me. Talk to that Iero kid. Talk to someone. Just...just promise me you’ll stick this shit out, all right?”

“Yeah,” Gerard choked out around grateful tears. “Yeah, I promise.”

Gabe smiles, easy but small, restrained by empathy. He couldn’t be happy if Gerard wasn’t.

“Don’t you dare say ‘it’ll get better’ again. That’s the cheesiest fucking thing you could say to me.”

Gabe’s grin illuminates at Gerard’s insouciant comment.

“It’ll get better, Jee-rard,” he says in faux drama, cupping Gerard’s face and inching the drawl into his words sloppily. “It’ll all be good. Gay is okay. Love will win.”

Gerard shakes his head from Gabe’s hands, swatting them down. “You’re so fucking weird.”

“But you know we’d be dating if we weren’t best friends. I can’t be that weird.”

“Whatever, I guess,” Gerard says, voice back to normal volume, tear-free, and fraught with false mockery. “Catch ya later, Saporta. Keep it queer. Love ya.”

Gabe blows Gerard a kiss through the passenger window as Gerard climbs out. He flicks it away and laughs as Gabe throws a hand to his head, feigning heartache and despair. Gerard is able to face his front door with more courage between his ribs and more weight in his feet. He was lucky to have someone like Gabe, someone who reveled in what was such an enormous source of fear and humiliation for so long, someone who dragged him out from beneath the waves and onto the shore so many times. It had never really sunk in that being gay was fine until he met Gabe, and it was nothing short of life-changing.

Gerard climbs down the stairs and checks his phone to find a message from Gabe--a picture message, him posing with some band member from a poster on his bedroom wall, pretending to suck him off. Gerard snorted and it quickly turned into laughter, loud, deep belly laughter that took him over and left him doubled  over and struggling for air. He wiped away tears of complete and absolute joy and freedom and unbridled happiness. Gerard beamed at his phone, fingers curling around it lovingly.

God, that kid was great.


	4. Chapter 4

**  
  
**Despite the gloomy undertones impending rain paints the sky, it’s much earlier than the darkness suggests. Something near 7:30 am, Gerard realizes as he looks at his phone. He and Gabe went out for Sunday morning coffee as early as they could, which was 5:00--when the coffeeshop opened. Nevermind that they had just been there the night prior, nevermind that neither needed caffeine to function, nevermind that neither had the money to blow on weekly coffee. He didn’t even remember how the ritual started--it was fucking unholy for teenagers to ruin the sanctity of a weekend by getting up early, and with games every Saturday, they were left with no day free to sleep in. Maybe it had been some measure of acting mature, like sleep deprivation equalled business, productivity, purpose. Societal meaning. Something like that.

That sounded like something Gabe would come up with--ostensibly stupid, but rooted in a meaning too ethereal for Gerard to completely understand.

This was the same kid who had texted Gerard a picture of himself pretending to give head to Justin Timberlake.

The duality of man, Gerard thinks to himself.

Still looking at his phone, a text comes in--one from Mikey:

_dont come home. give us 2 hrs._

He shuddered. Mikey had someone over, and it wasn’t someone to fake western accents with.

Gerard turned on a dime and began heading back into town. He wanted to get as far away from Mikey and anything he could fathom (even when he sure as fucking hell didn’t want to) him doing with his….guest.

Gerard shuddered again, swallowing down bile. He might be sixteen now, but he was always going to be Gerard’s kid brother. It was never not going to be really fucking weird.

A warm deja vu settles around Gerard’s shoulders, the kind whose embrace comes from the fact that it’s anticipated when it typically never is. He was lending himself to reliving recent memories; the shock of misplaced familiarity could not strike him now. There was something to be said about walking where he just had minutes earlier, and walking where he had been driven along only hours ago. Gabe could have easily driven him into town today, but Gerard didn’t want him to. He didn’t know why, particularly--something came over him, and he wanted to be alone with his thoughts. It didn’t scare him to do that today; today, it was peaceful. He felt comfortable in his skin.

Maybe he was inching closer to it getting better like Gabe had said.

And as a hopeful grin begins to curl across his lips, he sees the one person whose very existence acted as affirmation for this hope, the one person who made his grin bloom into a wide smile and made his ribs tighten with shyness.

“Hey, Frank,” he says softly.

Frank looks up from his phone, and his frown gives way to an amiable smile. “Hey, Gerard,” he mirrors, taking a few steps closer to Gerard and away from others passing him on the sidewalk. Still not favoring a side--still not making any indication he was hurt the way he was--but Gerard won’t bring it up. He doesn’t ruin what this moment could be.

“Out for a walk on a day like this?” Gerard asks lightly through a grin, eyes flicking up to the ominous clouds above them.

Frank shrugs, hoodie rising briefly to flash the tee-shirt underneath. “Didn’t want to go home. Thought getting to know this town could be useful.”

“I’m always here to show you around,” Gerard offers, the words slipping out between his teeth before he can catch them. In response, he feels heat bloom across his cheeks. Frank grins--whether at the offer or at Gerard’s instinctual response to his own comment, Gerard can’t tell. He’s not quite sure it bothers him, not knowing. He could live with a little ignorance.

“I might have to take you up on that,” Frank says evenly, and Gerard’s ribs grow tighter. His eyes are illuminated as always, green and sandy brown meeting on glass-like edges. They reminded Gerard of pots that were glued back together after having been destroyed, the idea that broken didn’t mean useless, that beauty came from experience. A twinge of sadness finds its way in Gerard’s ribs. He’s not sure why it’s there.

“Another day, though,” he adds after checking his phone. “I’ve gotta--gotta get back home.”

A spark of worry flashes through Gerard’s bones; he couldn’t let Frank go so soon. “Can’t stay for breakfast? Coffee?”

Frank’s eyes flick down to his phone for a moment and licks his lips before bringing them back up to Gerard’s. He can see the smirk cross Frank’s face before it happens, and he smiles.

“Yeah,” Frank says. “Yeah, I can do coffee.”

 

 

 

The increasing threat of rain keeps the two indoors long enough for awkward silence to settle around them. They ran out of things to talk about quickly, what with Frank checking his phone so frequently Gerard was beginning to feel out of place and unwanted--he held back many of the questions on his lips. But with each laugh, grin, or bright comment, Frank drew Gerard back into conversations. It was emotional vertigo, but Gerard could stand it. He would tolerate anything if it meant being with Frank.

The silence was heavy and threatened to choke out all conversation, and it did--they were silent for close to fifteen minutes--but it did not choke out the stolen glances and hidden grins and surreptitious lip biting. No amount of teenage angst could drive away whatever was blooming between them, and Gerard was comforted by this--this, the promise of growth, and some semblance of happiness.

It was the most leverage he’d ever had over the waves in years, and it felt like watching the sea from a dock--chaos was free to continue; he was no longer caught in it. It was foreign. It was holy. He never wanted to let it go.

Gerard had sucked down his coffee out of romantic anxiety and social awkwardness, and it left him to watch Frank choke his down a sip at a time.

“You don’t have to drink it if you don’t like it,” Gerard laughed.

Frank stuck his tongue out, aerating it to rid it of the bitterness. “I do like it, I swear,” he said, grimacing at the taste as he pulled his tongue back into his mouth. Gerard beamed, and something buoyant found its way in his chest. He hadn’t been this happy and carefree in so long. Even with the sky darkening, his own world was growing brighter. And he owed it all to the boy with the beautiful eyes across the table.

But something flickers in them, or across them, some kind of shadow that turns down the corners of Frank’s smile. Gerard feels his heart ache; he doesn’t know what causes it, and he doesn’t feel he’s in the position to ask.

He feels helpless.  He wants to know everything about Frank. He doesn’t want to ever feel this useless. He doesn’t want Frank to feel anything but utter joy.

Suddenly, no amount of ignorance is too small.

“Used to like coffee a lot,” Frank explains. Gerard hadn’t asked him to; if he squints, he can pretend this is indicative of how close they are, how they know each other so well they aren’t extremely dependant on words, how Frank knows what’s on Gerard’s mind just by body language and shared gazes.

“Yeah?” Gerard asks.

“Yeah,” Frank mutters. He peers into his styrofoam cup, sighing. “Wish I still did.”

Gerard’s jaw clenches. He berates himself for not knowing how to comfort Frank.

He watches Frank look down at the phone in his lap, and the entire structure of his face changes completely, rewriting itself for the absence of complacency. It breaks Gerard’s heart. He has to say something.

“You all right?”

Frank nods slowly, not looking up from his phone for a few moments. “Yeah. Yeah, just gotta--gotta get home.”

Gerard swallows, uneasy by the trepidation in Frank’s voice. “Um, yeah, me too,” he offers, desperate to keep Frank as long as he can. “Gotta kick out the girl my brother’s sucking face with.”

Frank’s head shoots up, eyes almost hollow with how solid and full of vibrancy they are. It sends chills creeping across Gerard’s lower back.

“What?” Frank asks through a stammer.

Gerard blinks. “I--you know, he’s got someone over, he kicked me out. You know how guys are with their girlfriends.”

Frank blinks back. “No, not really.”

A wave of heat drenches Gerard’s face. He can hear blood pounding in his ears, and he searches Frank’s few syllables for anything other than the meaning he finds in them, anything other than the affirmation that something other than friendship could bloom between them.

“Oh,” Gerard says finally. “Well, uh. Yeah.”

Frank stares at him until Gerard looks away.

“Well, I gotta--I really gotta get back, sorry, but, uh--” Frank shoves his phone in his pocket, clamoring to his feet. “--gotta, uh--’m sure Mikey’s, uh, good and great, and--”

The blood froze in Gerard’s veins.

How did he know Mikey’s name?

“--um, bye, Gerard, thank you for everything. See you later,” Frank says as he bolts out the door of the coffeeshop.

Gerard stares at the newly empty space in front of him, and the coffee left behind. Black, like Gerard’s. Not the sugary shit Gabe liked. The thought of grabbing it and finishing it crosses Gerard’s mind more than once, but he doesn’t. It looks eerie now, out of place in light of everything that just happened--whatever that all was.

Why did Frank need to leave so quickly? Why was he always checking his phone? Why was he always upset by texts he received?

And how on earth did he know Mikey’s name?


	5. Chapter 5

Gerard knows now he overreacted: they all went to the same fucking school in the same fucking small town. Why wouldn’t Frank know Mikey’s name?

But it didn’t eradicate the uneasiness of Frank leaving so abruptly, or why he apparently didn’t fucking bleed, or why he seemed a little lost in fast-moving scenarios.

What the hell was going on with him? 

And why did he care so much?

The mysteries were beginning to stack and pile and build into something towering and looming. At the very top was Mikey.

Gerard arrived home to find that the house was empty except for his brother (and he was beyond grateful he didn’t have to walk into anything he didn’t want to see), but when Mikey didn’t respond to his proclamations of ‘fuck’ like usual, he began to get worried. The fleeting fear that Mikey was out of the house ripped through him with alarming results. For some reason, Gerard would assume that Mikey not being in the house meant some kind of danger--not that he was just out with friends, doing anything mundane. Something had crept into Gerard that turned all his thoughts dark and sour. Instinctively he blamed the rain, but he knew it was a scapegoat.

He would bare this ignorance.

After the panic had passed through him, Gerard found Mikey wretching in the bathroom. With a grimace he descended to his room. Mystery fucking solved. One layer off the tower above his head. He could pretend it didn’t unnerve him as much as he did. He could feign being that carefree.

  
  
  


Gerard found himself only able to fake the happiness of ignorance until practice the next night. 

He should have known something wasn’t right with Frank. There were things about him Gerard didn’t understand, but he never once considered those things were inherently bad or indicative of poor health. He noticed that Frank seemed to be worse off at practice--slower, groggier, out of it more than usual--but it didn’t alarm Gerard. He wonders if, somehow, Frank had taken up residence in his thoughts so deeply the possibility for anything other than happiness was never considered. This thought crosses his mind and leaves his cheeks burning. He can’t bring himself to refuse it.

Because of his refusal, he was inching toward horror at seeing Frank collapse.

Gerard watched as his knees buckles and he crumpled, crashing to the field at awkward angles. For a moment, he felt as he imagined Frank did--his world seemed to stop and slow, and he adopted tunnel vision as he ran over to Frank. He couldn’t see anything else because nothing else was worthy of being seen.

And maybe the tunnel vision was crippling, or maybe it was the onset of mental fog again, but he couldn’t move. Gerard watched as his coach and other teammates swarmed around Frank and he found himself being pushed away. Suddenly, distantly, his heart feels like it’s breaking. It’s misplaced and inappropriate, but Gerard feels like he might cry. He composes himself with eyes yearning over shoulders to find Frank, but to no avail. Anxiety begins to creep under his skin until the coach calls his name.

Gerard’s ears prick up. 

“Take Frank into the locker room,” his coach says, her voice even, relaxed. Gerard takes a step into the crowd with newfound relevance and sees that Frank’s awake, just out of it, looking up at Gerard with blurred eyes, blinking quickly. “Get him some water, make sure he sits up.”

Gerard looks at Frank for longer than necessary, enough for him to reply too late to be without embarrassment. “Oh, yeah, sure,” he says. The coach helps Frank get to his feet and throws his arm over Gerard’s shoulder.

As Gerard walks Frank across the field and to the gym, he thinks about making small talk with Frank, but can’t find the words. With Frank’s weight on his shoulder and his own arm around Frank’s waist, he can’t find thoughts important enough to take his focus off of how warm Frank is, how his muscles feel as they flex and relax under Gerard’s fingers.

It’s enough to bring him out of his fog. He feels himself blush.

Inside the locker room Gerard sits Frank on the floor, pushing him back against the wall to keep Frank upright. He walks a few feet to grab his own water bottle. When he turns back around, Frank is trying to stand up.

“Hey, no,” Gerard says firmly. “You can’t be walking around. You just passed out.”

Frank shakes his head, too fluid, too far in either direction. “I’m fine,” he mutters, staring ahead blankly.

“No,” Gerard insists. He sits down in front of Frank, offering his water. Frank looks at him, blinks, and looks away, head rolling slowly against the wall.

“Don’t need it,” he mutters, out of weakness more than flippance.

Gerard huffs, becoming frustrated at Frank’s lack of care for himself. “Frank, you’re dehydrated. You need water.” He sets the bottle forward, closer to Frank.

Frank looks down at it, but won’t take it. He brings his eyes up to Gerard, and Gerard grits his teeth. Frank’s eyes are glazed over, muting some of the vividity in his eyes. It’s this, the physical lack of life, that sparks an anxious fear in Gerard.

“Frank, drink the water,” he says firmly. 

Frank doesn’t respond.

Gerard pulls himself up to his knees to get more vantage over Frank. “I swear to God, I’ll pour it down your throat if I have to.”

Finally, some of the color comes back into Frank’s eyes, but Gerard’s stomach begins to knot when he realizes it’s out of fear.

“Gerard, please,” Frank says softly. “I’m fine, really, please, please don’t.”

He blinks, and damns himself for fighting back tears for no good reason. “Frank, you really need water. You’re going to fuck up your muscles and shit if you don’t drink.”

Gerard watches Frank’s throat bob, panic seizing his voice. “Gerard,  _ please _ .”

Something twitches in Gerard’s bones; something comes undone. He’s frustrated that Frank doesn’t care enough about himself to do something so simple, and he’s frustrated at himself for caring so much. Frank barely knew him; why was Gerard so insistent on him being okay? They had gotten coffee once, shared hardly enough words to form any kind of friendship. Frank had probably forgotten it even happened by now.

A swift, sudden knot in his stomach causes his jaw to clench.

Why did Gerard care so much about him?

“R-really, Gerard, I’m okay. I’m not dehydrated. I just--”

“Can you just…” Gerard says, pausing to take a breath. “One drink? Please?”

Frank licks his lips briefly, scanning Gerard’s eyes. “No. I can’t.”

Gerard lets out all the air in his lungs, and it nearly brings out tears with it.

“I’m--I’m sorry, Gerard, I just can’t. I--” Frank points to where his bag lay on the opposite side of the locker room. “Can you get my phone, please?”

Gerard blinks, blinks again. He hesitates for just a moment, but only just. Frank can do what he wants. He doesn’t need to do anything for Gerard.

And why would he? Why would he ever care about Gerard?

Why would anyone?

Gerard returns to see Frank clamoring to his feet. He stands where he is and watches, moving forward only to keep Frank from collapsing again. The bitterness of knowing he’s not appreciated anymore surges through Gerard’s veins, clouding his thoughts. He feels like he’s slipping away.

“I--I promise I’ll explain later, Gerard,” he says, clutching Gerard’s shirt as he tries to regain balance. “I just--I can’t right now. I’m so sorry.”

“What? What’s going on?” Gerard blinks, and his bitterness solidifies into self-loathing at his inability to piece it all together. “Is this about the water?”

Frank looks up at him. Gerard no longer wants any vantage over him. He helps Frank up to his full height.

“Yeah,” Frank says slowly. “Yeah. It’s…” He looks up at Gerard again, blinking quickly and evenly. Gerard feels like he’s being searched, and his face begins to burn.

“Thank you, Gerard,” he says finally, heavy with the weight of everything he didn’t say. Gerard can tell by the way his words are somehow hollow at the same time, like Frank had drilled them and removed every bit of his heart from the inside.

But there is sincerity.

A small, small grin flickers across Gerard’s face.

“You’re welcome,” he says softly.

Gerard will take every bit of truth he can get.


	6. Chapter 6

Living in a small town meant Gerard was always aching to leave. It also meant he was surrounded by more of them.

It only took ten minutes to enter a new town, ten more to the next, ten to the one after. Strung like beads, loosely but totally connected. Gerard could escape quickly. But today it didn’t grant him freedom. If anything, it only fortified his anxiety.

As miles slipped behind him, Gerard’s thoughts began to settle like shrapnel hitting soil. His anxiety had been fit to burst for hours, days even, and it finally had. He couldn’t put the pieces back together at home--if he asked others to help him look, they would only kick the jagged remains under furniture. Gerard knew he had to sort through it alone, stitch himself together by himself.

Through the fog of his thoughts, he hears rain strike the windshield like impatient fingernails aching to reach inside his car and soak him from the inside out. He looks up to see that the clouds have broken from the pressure of holding too much in for too long.

For some goddam fucking reason, Gerard begins to tear up.

He doesn’t know how long he drives. Towns gradually become less and less familiar. It almost feels like comfort. Gerard wonders if it would have been better to not escape so much. He wouldn’t have to go so far to relieve himself of the weight on his shoulders. He wouldn’t have to waste so much fucking gas just to pull off to the side of the road and watch the scarce traffic with trembling fingers picking idly at the leather seat. If he had any fucking endurance, he could have made it easier for himself.

Gerard clenches his jaw long enough to feel his molars begin to ache. He was filled with a toxic mix of self-loathing that grew on itself the more he thought of it--angry for not caring about himself, angry for ever caring. Gerard’s thoughts wound around this perfect circle for hours, and he took the symmetry for affirmation of his thoughts.

Raindrops hit the glass harder. Gerard wonders hopefully if it could ever shatter under the weight of such incessant prying.

The sun is beginning to set, and with it a flurry of cars opposing Gerard’s motion. Just inches beside him, only inches; Gerard knows he could reach out and touch them. They’d be something solid enough to pull him out from his thoughts. He also knows to touch them would be catastrophic, breaking fingers or even worse.

He considers the options: chin above the waves for a few seconds longer, or finally succumbing to the sea.

Something deep within him wants the one that’s new. That is when Gerard finally cries. Hearing his own pathetic voice only increases his self-loathing. If he really cared about himself, he’d do something about it. And yet, he didn’t fucking deserve to waste the tears on himself. How absolutely fucking selfish was that?

Dropping his gaze from the road to the steering wheel, he focuses on his knuckles. Deft, fragile, pliant--he could easily make them turn ever so slightly, just enough to cross lanes. It was only inches, after all, and then it would be only seconds. It would all be over so quickly. He could finally stop battling for leverage above the waves.

This thought sinks into Gerard’s mind, heavy and dark and growing with skittering feet across the inside of his skull. No one would miss him. Mikey hated him now, his parents were sickened to the point of apathy at the sight of him, Gabe could quickly make new friends to replace him, and Frank--

Frank didn’t even know him. Frank didn’t care about him.

With a startling sobriety, Gerard suddenly stops crying. The tears dry cold and uncomfortable on his cheeks. His fingers are too heavy to wipe his face.

The fog in Gerard’s mind--the one he was so accustomed to, had lived with for so long, had barely known a day without--was gone. Gerard no longer struggled to find his own thoughts through haze and confusion.

There weren’t any left to find.

A calmness Gerard has never known begins to seep out from his skull and down, down, down to his chest and fingers and left to pool in his feet. It’s peace; it’s sedation. It’s freedom from his secrets and feelings and world.

It’s not healthy, he thinks distantly, but he’ll take it.

With cemented veins and swollen bones, Gerard finds he can’t move his hands to swerve the car. His knuckles are less like bones strung together and more like bricks plastered against each other.

Very unhealthy, Gerard thinks. He can’t make the car leave his lane, but to his surprise, he doesn’t mind. The passing of time doesn’t register anymore, but he knows he has millions of years left. He can take all the time he wants in killing himself.

For once in his fucking life, there is no rush to do something.

Gerard blinks, and the sun has completely descended beneath the horizon. He blinks again and inches toward a town he doesn’t know.

Something within his chest aerates, cracking cement. It feels broken and holy.

Blinking again, Gerard finds himself in the middle of the main drag with absolutely no recollection of entering the town. He briefly feels disoriented, but apathy swallows it whole. He doesn’t care about anything anymore.

The gas station is the nearest open parking lot, so he pulls in there. He kills the engine and glances down at the clock as his hand drops heavily into his lap. It was nearly midnight; he had left his house at four.

He’s grateful he had turned his phone off and stowed it in the glove compartment.

Gerard lifts his eyes again and stares ahead at the road. No cars pass by him; the business of life is replaced by the pregnant stagnation of night. Neon lights are pathetic imitations. Gerard feels misplaced anger deposit itself in the cracks of his solid foundation.

It feels solid. It feels _real_. He knows it’s nowhere near good for him but _fuck_ , it’s something he can rely on. He can finally stand on two feet and strong knees, knowing they’ll support all of his weight. He feels strong. He feels sturdy. He looks at the neon cafe sign across the street and considers the shitty, crumbling building it’s connected to. He takes comfort in knowing he is different than the cafe. He doesn’t let himself consider the differences in who has seen what’s inside him; he can’t afford to break his own heart again.

Bleakly, the string of neon green digits on the dashboard change. An hour passes, but it hasn’t. Gerard’s eyes feel dense and solid, threatening to roll back into his skull and get soaked in the dry hum of sadness that has taken the place of his thoughts. He wouldn’t mind. He’s seen enough horror movies to--

Clicking on the window. Gerard looks; it’s actual impatient fingernails. He is too apathetic to jump, too sad to be startled. Through the darkness he recognizes the face, and he blinks.

Frank cocks his head, tacitly asking to enter. Gerard clicks the lock on the door from the keypad on his side, and Frank climbs in.

Gerard says nothing. For once, Frank is not enough to pull Gerard out of his thoughts. He isn’t good enough to save Gerard.

Gerard blinks again. He’ll be damned if he thinks his eyes are starting to burn.

Frank blinks back, quickly, far too many times to be indicative of anything good. “Gerard--Gerard, please,” he chokes, voice thick with tears.

Gerard sits up, turning his shoulders an inch or two to better face Frank. But he can’t speak. He can’t pry his jaws open.

He can hear Frank’s short and shallow breathing, can hear his fingers needlessly picking at the leather seat. Full of anxiety. Threatening to burst.

“D-don’t do it,” Frank whispers, voice tight and raw.

Gerard can’t breathe. His lungs close up.

Frank wipes away his tears quickly, then sets his hands in his lap. “Don’t kill yourself, Gerard.”

Gerard’s jaw drops, his lips open, face burning. He sucks in air; his fingers begin to shake.

He bursts into tears as a cry is ripped from his throat.

“H-how, how, how d-did you--?”

“I, I just--I’m really empathetic,” Frank decides, voice too solid too fast. Gerard knows he’s lying, but he doesn’t know what to accuse him of.

What on earth could he say?

Seconds and minutes are filled with Gerard looking at Frank, and Frank looking at Gerard. He notices Frank looks even worse than Monday; the four days between seemed to have aged him years. He’s paler and moving much more slowly, lethargy like cement in his arms and legs and words. Gerard can feel his heart begin to break, cracks aching as they settle in deeply, ruining the foundation.

Frank turns to exit the car, and Gerard instantly grabs Frank’s arm.

“You can’t drive yourself home,” Gerard insists. “You look like shit.”

Frank offers a small laugh of cognizance. “Yeah, I know.” He reaches up to brush hair out of his face. His fingers drag through the air as if it were amber. A low, ticking worry begins to creep under Gerard’s skin. All too familiar.

“I’ll take you home.”

“I--actually, I came with someone,” Frank says, dropping his hand into his lap, staring at it oddly. “But…” Frank’s eyes flicker up to Gerard’s, and something deep within them flashes. “But fuck him.”

Gerard blinks, and a trickle of thoughts begin to swirl around the inside of his skull.

“Take me home, Way,” Frank grins.

To his complete and utter surprise, Gerard returns it in full.


	7. Chapter 7

  
They get home just as the sun is rising. Exhaustion sits heavy in Gerard’s eyes; every hour had passed by with agonizing slowness. He had felt every second slip under the tires. Something like hope crackles in his chest, and he can’t help but grin.

It was hard to have hope when Frank looked like he was dying. He truly looked like shit, Gerard thought. He feared Frank would pass out again.

He did, but not until they were both inside Gerard’s house.

And normally Gerard wouldn’t be any more worried than usual because Frank came to almost instantly after passing out. A slow, long blink, if anything. But when Gerard sets Frank on the living room couch and hasn’t opened his eyes by the time Gerard returns with water, he begins to panic.

“Frank.”

Nothing.

“C’mon, Frank. Up and at ‘em.”

Nothing.

Gerard swallows. His parents’ and Mikey’s car weren’t parked out front; he could be as loud as needed.

“Frank! C’mon!”

Still nothing.

Gerard uncaps his water and dumps it on Frank’s face, expecting a horror and anger and curses to explode from his lips in response.

But there’s nothing. His lips are still and oddly colored.

With fear threatening to unravel him, Gerard pulls his hand back and swings full force. He cringes, grimacing at the impossibly loud sound of skin on skin.

Frank’s head had moved to accept the slap, but that was all. No reaction. No response.

Gerard hesitates to check Frank’s wrist for a pulse, but after sucking down a breath and closing his eyes to compose himself, he does, pressing his fingertips along the soft skin on the inside of his wrist. The air is ripped from his lungs and his eyes snap open, disobeying the requests of his exhaustion. His skin is cold.

There was nothing.

Frank was dead.

Gerard scrambles for his phone in his pockets, before remembering it was in his car.

“Fuck!” he yells, leaving Frank’s side and sprinting clumsily to the kitchen for the home phone. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…” he says, trying to push away the worries flooding his thoughts so he could concentrate. He grips the phone too tightly in one hand, trying to keep it from shaking so his other fingers won’t punch the wrong digits.

9.

He’s dead. He’s dead.

1.

He’s never coming back to soccer practice, he’s never going to get coffee with me again, he’s never coming back to school.

1.

My one chance at happiness is gone.

 

Tears in his eyes match the preexistent burn of exhaustion. He puts the phone up to his ear, clamping one hand on his forearm to steady the shaking.

Far too loud and reaching deep into his chest, a steady female voice asks “911, what’s your emergency?”

Gerard turns away from the wall, away from the hideous floral wallpaper, to look at Frank. He was sitting up. He was staring at Gerard with wide eyes.

Gerard feels his stomach plummet.

“I...th-there’s…”

He doesn’t know what to say.

He watches Frank clamor to his feet, making his way slowly and awkwardly toward Gerard. Fear creeps up his spine, anxious to make him drop the phone and run, run out of the house, run down the street, run as far away from Frank as he can. Gerard’s childhood of horror movies supply him with likening Frank to a zombie. He can’t unsee it.

“S-stop,” Frank mutters, voice thick and jagged. “P-put the phone down, Gerard.”

Gerard freezes. Crackling through the speaker he can hear a faint “Hello?”

“I’m fine,” Frank insists with a stronger voice, leaning against the kitchen wall. “Hang up the phone, Gerard.”

Gerard blinks. He can’t make out what the voice in his hand is saying. He figures that’s a good enough reason to hang up.

The moment he presses down the button and hears the click that releases the drone of the dial tone, he sucks air into his lungs.

“What the hell, Frank?”

Frank blinks, looking taken aback. He won’t say anything, which only spurs Gerard’s anger and frustration further.

“Seriously, what the living fuck is going on? You, you look like shit, and you pass out all the time, and--are you sick, Frank? I can get you meds if that’s all you need but--but fuck, Frank, what happened at practice?”

Frank lifts his head from the wall, looking at Gerard with newfound alertness. “What?”

“When you got kicked,” Gerard says, setting the phone down on the table and walking toward Frank. “Remember? You fucking got trampled. You should’ve--your leg should have broken, man! Or, I mean, you should have started bleeding! Wilson is fucking huge! And he stepped on you! His cleats fucking dug into your skin!”

Nothing.

Gerard huffs, frustration pitching his voice up. “What the literal fuck is going on?!”

Frank’s eyes drop to the floor. “You wouldn’t believe me,” he mutters.

“Fucking try me,” Gerard spits, and humiliation begins to lick heat across his face. Why was he so angry? Why did he want to know so much when he was so used to living his life without making any more connections than he needed to?

Why did he care this much about Frank?

“Gerard…”

He watches as Frank’s chest begins to heave. The anger in his bones begin to soften, leaving him pliable.

Frank lifts his eyes to meet Gerard’s, wet and sad and electric as always.

“Mikey’s dead, Gerard.”

Nothing. Gerard says nothing.

“Someone killed him.”

Nothing.

Frank forcefully exhales his inability to speak clearly and without hesitation.

“I know who did it,” he offers.

Gerard blinks slowly, just a few moments too long.

Frank begins to shuffle toward him, ungracefully putting his weight back onto his feet. It takes all of Gerard’s self control not to flee.

“It’s--it’s a long story,” Frank says. “I--”

Gerard slams an open fist down on the table. Frank stops talking.

“What the fuck?!” Gerard shrieks. Tears explode from behind his eyes and drip without his permission down his cheeks, onto the hideous tile beneath their feet.

Frank doesn’t respond. Gerard lets out a cry of frustration.

“What the fuck are you even talking about? How do you--?! What makes you think--?”

“Because I was told,” Frank says slowly, evenly.

Gerard glares at him with misplaced anger. He does not feel guilty about it.

“Mikey was…” Frank shakes his head loosely, slowly, carefully choosing his words. “The person who did this, uh...He had a good reason.”

Gerard stands up taller, electric hatred threatening to spill past his lips. Frank’s eyes plead for silence, and for whatever fucking reason, Gerard complies.

“I...look, you’re really, really not going to believe this, but…” Frank licks his lips, scanning the floor for courage before looking up at Gerard again. “What happened to Mikey, um, happened to me.”

Gerard blinks. Something like pity sits hollow and heavy between his ribs.

He doesn’t say anything, per Frank’s tacit request. Frank continues.

“So...I don’t really know where to start, but, uh…”

Gerard watches Frank’s throat bob as he swallows. His arm is trembling from supporting all of his weight, but Gerard doesn’t offer help.

“So...Mikey was pretty sick for a while, right? Like, throwing up and stuff?”

Gerard nods slowly. He watches Frank switch the arm that supports himself.

“Well, that was--he, got, um. I don’t know, we don’t have a word for it, really. Changed, I guess?” Frank’s eyebrows furrow, and Gerard is suddenly filled with the desire to punch Frank square in the face.

He says nothing.

“Remember when we got coffee? And you said he had someone over?”

Gerard bites on his lower lip. He remembers. He remembers it as the moment that affirmed his possibility of some kind of meaningful future with Frank.

“Yes,” he mutters in response.

“Yeah. Well, it wasn’t--he didn’t have some girl over. I know who it was, and it was the same guy who did it to me.”

A guy?

“Who?”

Frank presses his fingers down onto the table, easing himself more upright. His breathing is labored and shallow to the point of meaningless.

“His name is Pete,” Frank says slowly. “When people are close to death or have died, he comes after them.”

For one moment, Gerard wants to throw this ridiculousness into Frank’s face, saying that Mikey wasn’t near death. But he was. He had been his whole life. Just a few months ago he had been hospitalized for his asthma, and it hadn’t gotten any better.

He had been so weak.

And Pete had _killed him_.

But--but, wait--

“You said the same thing happened to you,” Gerard says. “So isn’t Mikey okay? Isn’t he--?”

“No,” Frank says sternly. “He is like me, but he’s not okay. I died, Gerard. You felt for a pulse and didn’t find one.”

Gerard stares into Frank’s eyes. The life in them unravels something in his stomach.

“I’m dead, Gerard.”

He feels the air leak out of his lungs. He can’t pull it back in.

Frank’s knees give out and he doubles over on the table for a moment before propping himself back up. Gerard finds himself unable to help Frank. He can’t understand the bitterness he feels.

Frank sighs, bracing himself. “I died. It was untimely, I guess, so Pete brought me...back,” Frank decides, frowning at the word. It didn’t fit right; it wasn’t suitable.

“B-but you’re here,” Gerard stammers. “You’re--”

“Pete didn’t revive me. He kind of...I don’t know. Exhumed me, I guess. I’m still dead, but I’m conscious. I know what I’m doing. I have feelings and senses like I did when I was alive.”

Gerard lets the crashing waves of his thoughts settle until they lap at the shore of his tongue. “So you’re....a zombie?”

Frank shrugs. “Maybe? No, wait,” he says quickly, realization hitting him. “What’s the thing that needs blood to live?”

Gerard blinks, Frank fluttering in and out of his vision. “A vampire,” he says.

“Yeah,” Frank says, nodding. “That.”

They hold eye contact for a few moments until Gerard looks away, inexplicably embarrassed.

“Oh,” he says.

Frank coughs. “Um. Yeah.”

With his childhood supplying the connection of synapses, Gerard pieces together everything a little better.

“So...you haven’t had any blood, then, right? That’s why you look so awful?”

Frank nods weakly. As if on cue, his elbows give out and he crashes to the floor. Gerard wraps his arms around Frank’s waist and sets him back on the couch. He was uneased by how little Frank weighed.

“Well, can’t Pete get you blood? Or--”

The final pieces click together. It hits him like a fucking freight train.

“That’s why he killed Mikey,” he says hollowly.

Frank blinks. “What? No,” he says. “No, Mikey was just changed, or whatever, to help Pete kill people for blood.”

Sitting on the floor in front of the couch, Gerard looks at Frank’s fingers, hanging unnervingly still over his knee. “Oh.”

“Like me,” Frank says.

Gerard’s head shoots up. “Oh?”

Frank nods, but he doesn’t explain. Gerard watches something dark and saddening cross over Frank’s face, and he doesn’t feel he’s in the position to ask.

After a few minutes of horribly awkward silence, Gerard asks, “So if you just get some blood you’ll be fine, right?”

Frank looks down at Gerard with heavy, dark eyes. “No. It’s not that easy.”

Gerard cocks his head, a tacit invitation for Frank to explain.

So he does.

“If I don’t change anyone, Pete will end me. He’ll--I don’t know. You can’t kill someone a second time, right? Well, whatever. He’ll end my second life.”

Gerard feels his stomach knot. “You have to change someone?”

He opens his mouth to explain, but he doesn’t need to. Gerard is piecing together the last bits of it all.

He points a shaking finger at his chest. Frank nods slowly.

For a long time, neither say anything. They let the silence envelop them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow I ended up deleting this chapter, so I'm reposting it.


	8. Chapter 8

**  
  
**The explanation pours out of Frank, but Gerard doesn’t care.

“Look, I had to choose someone, and--”

“Then do it.”

Frank stops. He begins to shake his head.

“Gerard, no. I can’t.”

Gerard blinks, cocks his head. “But that’s why you’re here. That’s why you befriended me.”

He watches as Frank’s eyes drop. The frustration of not being able to refute this surges behind Frank’s eyes. Electric. Excited. Real. Gerard doesn’t know what to feel, so he doesn’t feel anything.

Again, another dripping of explanation:

“Gerard, I--yeah. That’s true.”

Breathe in, breathe out.

“But I could have done it days ago. I had no reason to wait this long.”

Blink. Blink. Blink.

“I didn’t want to do it then, and I can’t bring myself to do it now.”

Gerard’s head snaps up. He doesn’t know what to say, but he is yearning to say it.

“I got close to change you, but I can’t do that to you. You mean too much to me,” Frank says softly.

Gerard feels his cheeks burn. If the situation were different, he’d be grinning. “Oh,” he says finally.

Frank nods slowly. “Um. Yeah.”

The inches between them become the conduit for action. Gerard doesn’t know if he should run away shrieking, kiss Frank, or do nothing. Frank doesn’t make any kind of move, so Gerard settles on the latter. But something inside him shifts; suddenly action seems inappropriate.

“So, uh...how do you...feel?”

Frank blinks at Gerard, brows knotting slightly in confusion. “Oh. Um. A little weak, I guess. I--”

“D’you want me to, like…get you something?” Gerard asks softly, embarrassment and mysticism upending his voice. How could this be reality?

Frank ducks his head slightly and quickly, and Gerard realizes he would be blushing if he could. The nervous antics of awkward questions left Gerard feeling unsettled but comforted; he wasn’t alone in thinking this was all weird as all hell.

“...Maybe, like, vitamins? Like, there’s, like, a blood building pill that might be...good?”

“You want more blood in your system? Will that even work?”

Frank looks away, staring at his hands to think. “Oh yeah, you’re right. I don’t know...what’s in blood? Like, iron and shit, right?”

Gerard nods, feeling a smile curl around his lips. Why the fuck was this becoming funny? Shouldn’t he be horrified?

“So, I guess, like...that would probably be good. Shit, man, I don’t know about how this stuff works any more than you do.” Frank meets Gerard’s eyes, brows still knotted. It looks innocent, in a way; he’s lost, turning to Gerard for help. Gerard can’t stop himself from laughing. Frank cocks his head but Gerard waves it away, standing and trying to compose himself. His cheeks feel taut from dried tears, but the grin breaks it.

“Okay, Frank, I’ll be right back,” he says, a giggle hitched to his voice. Patting his pockets for his wallet he drives into town. In five minutes he’d be at the store, in ten he’d be home again. He was--holy fuck, he was going to buy vitamins for his vampire crush.

Holy fuck.

What had his life come to?

 

 

 

“That was fucking disgusting.”

Gerard snorts. “You’re not supposed to chew pills, Frank.”

Something flickers over Frank’s face and he mutters an “Oh, yeah.” Gerard feels a twinge of sadness in his chest. He looks at Frank, suddenly only able to remember how dazed and perpetually confused he was. Clearly some memories had stuck, but not all. He didn’t remember how to take pills. He didn’t remember mundane things. His ordinary wasn’t for him to inhabit anymore.

Gerard clenches his jaw. He still couldn’t believe what his life had come to.

“Are you feeling better?”

Frank’s eyes focus on the floor, letting his mind whir without visual distraction. He nods slowly at first, finally looking up at Gerard. “Yeah. Yeah, I am, actually.” He sounded amazed. He hadn’t thought it would work. And if it hadn’t…

“I want to take you somewhere,” Frank says. “It’s, um--” He pauses to grin, bottom lip catching in his teeth for a moment. “I think you’ll fucking love it.”

Gerard blushes, his own thoughts beginning to whir. Was Frank coming onto him? Was this going to be a date? This day could not be more fucking unbelievable.

“Oh, yeah, cool. I’m down,” Gerard stammers.

Frank’s eyes take on a new electricity. Something different was spurring his thoughts along, something new to Gerard.

Frank grins, taking Gerard’s hand.

Gerard swallows.

 

 

 

Frank beams at Gerard, anticipating a good response. Gerard feels like he might throw up.

“Frank…” Sadness crushes Gerard, threatening to make his bones cave in. He knew Frank was trying to be funny, entertain the child Gerard who had grown up on horror movies, but this was too much.

“Pretty fucking old, aren’t I?” Frank grins, a smug grin illuminating his face. He was proud for being able to turn this whole thing into something light. What he’d said was a joke--he was only about fifteen years older than Gerard--but it felt like a punch in the gut.

Gerard looks up at Frank, and Frank’s face falls, the smile plummeting to the newly upturned soil between them.

“Gerard, I--sorry, I thought--”

“Yeah,” Gerard blurts out, desperate to stop Frank from continuing. He knew what Frank was going to say, but he didn’t want to hear it. He wouldn’t be able to deal with it if it hit his ears. It would feel like a crashing wave.

When Gerard won’t look at him, Frank looks at the headstone in front of them. Silent moments pass between them, and they exchange glances and shuffling feet like cards. Interaction, but like bated breath instead of shaking hands. Something like comfort, if they squint. Gerard is too afraid to speak--he can’t let Frank hear him cry--and Frank realizes this, so he takes it upon himself.

“I was on vacation,” he says.

Gerard closes his eyes, exhaling. He knows what’s coming. Fuck. _Fuck_.

“Went to the beach, the one a few miles away, you know?”

Gerard shoves his hands in his jeans pocket. Fuck. Frank assumed the beach was as popular as it had been fifteen years ago. He extrapolated from his memories. He didn’t know any better. Didn’t know that no one had been to the beach since--

Gerard gasps, air caught on the jagged edges of his lungs. Oh my god. Fuck. _Fuck_. He swallows down tears to mix with the knots of nausea in his stomach. This couldn’t be right, it couldn’t--

“Family vacation. I’d always been pretty athletic, so I went out for a swim.” He pauses, and Gerard can almost hear the smile--small, nostalgia-drenched, and it would only break Gerard’s heart if he looked. “I know it doesn’t seem like it at practice, but I was pretty fit. Knew what I was doing out there, in the water.”

Chest heaving, Gerard can barely hear Frank’s words over his own thoughts. He was piecing it all together again, _again_ , another scenario but equally as neat and intricate. It was like watching the story from the paper walk off the page and right next to him.

Fuck, it almost literally was.

“And...well, I--”

Gerard bites his tongue. He sucks in shallow, short breaths through his nose to stop himself from crying. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , he knew, he _knew_ \--

“My dad wasn’t a big fan of me. Never had been. Didn’t like how I was wired, hated not being able to rewire me.”

Without a thought Gerard snaps his head up to look at Frank. His eyes are glazed over, fixating on the etched digits in front of him. They defined his life. That was who he was. He had been under both of their feet for the last fifteen years, and now he was staring at his legacy.

Gerard wants to speak, but his voice won’t work.

“I didn’t see any upside. It was the spring of my senior year. I had weeks left of school, but it didn’t matter. It didn’t fucking matter. I couldn’t see beyond school. I couldn’t envision myself living away from him, from them, from everything. I didn’t have hope. I was too myopic for my own good.”

Gerard watches Frank turn his head away, pretending like he wasn’t wiping away tears, like Gerard couldn’t ever know. Like he could pour out this secret and still keep it private.

“I could swim,” Frank chokes out on a shattered, broken voice.

Gerard looks down at his feet. One foot on luscious grass, one on the uneven mound of dirt. Standing on the seam of two worlds. He had never felt more lonely in his life.

“Wow,” Frank says, looking down. “Pete did a really shitty job of being discrete.”

Inside him, Gerard dissolves, crumbles, falls apart beyond repair, but that didn’t matter. He didn’t need to put himself back together to build Frank again.

He takes two strides and wraps his arms around Frank. At the moment they collide, he begins to cry. His thoughts threaten to drag him under, his realizations drawing and quartering his heart. Frank was the kid from the paper. His death had put an end to beachgoing. Gerard remembers the story vaguely from the televised news reports, how his mother had been horrified. He remembers the look on her face. She had always been troubled by accidental deaths but, fuck, _fuck_ , it hadn’t been an accident after all, and he hadn’t had any idea. No one had. He hadn’t remembered Frank’s name, his age, all the details he was only learning now. It was belated. It was all too fucking late to matter.

“I’m sorry,” Gerard whispers. He knows it won’t fix anything, and the self-loathing at his uselessness boils thick and painful inside him. Frank says nothing, tightening his arms around Gerard’s neck. They stand on the poorly-leveled grave, and a thin, autumn wind encircles them like fingers, like ribs, like phantom wishes.


End file.
